


It is not victory I seek

by camelotsheart



Category: Merlin (TV), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Reincarnation, no beta we die like patroclus and achilles in troy, the major character death is arthur's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelotsheart/pseuds/camelotsheart
Summary: When he wakes, Merlin sits on the other side of the fire. Arthur calls out his name, but in his mind the voice continues to echo----Patroclus.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52





	It is not victory I seek

_“I am Achilles, son of Peleus, god-born, best of the Greeks,” he said. “I have come to bring you victory.” A second of startled silence, then the men roared their approval. Pride became us—heroes were never modest._

\-----------------------------------

He cannot move. All around him, men are driving their swords into unarmed flesh, burning tents (homes) into ash, or running through the camp, chasing anguished screams that vibrate through flame-licked leaves. He knows them - their bodies scratched with scabs from training he has overseen. Their sword that he has taught them to use. Their faces that have lit with fear, determination and relief as they duel. Now these men are turning things to ruin, weapons covered with blood and tears and dust. Because of him. Because of _him_.

Bile rises to his throat as he listens to his father preaching of victory. _Not victory_ , he promises himself. _Not victory. Not if the cost is this._

("It is not victory I seek," he says to Annis, "it is peace," and watches in relief as appreciation blooms across the queen's face. Today he has spared his men bloodshed, and in the days to come he will live with the knowledge that his kingdom is not alone in its dreams)

\-----------------------------------

_"Fight me.”_

_He made a sound almost like a laugh. “No. Of course not.”_

_“Fight me.” I stepped forward, defiant. Something burned hot in me now, an impatience, a certainty. I would have this thing. He would give it to me._

\-----------------------------------

"Who do you think you are? The _king_?" Merlin fires as he yanks against the grip. Arthur twists it hard in return.

For a split second the wind seems to pick up, dragging through branches of ancient trees. He thinks he can see a younger boy pinned to the ground by a knee on his stomach, the smell of unripe olives, a sound echoing into the night.

_Fight me._

Except it's not nighttime. He stands in the middle of the spring sun, the warmth of it seeping into his skin.

"No, I'm his son. _Arthur_ ," he says, and it feels like a beginning

\-----------------------------------

_"Come back,” I said. Then louder: “Come back. Are you afraid?”_

_That strange half-laugh again, his back still turned. “No, I am not afraid.”_

_“You should be.” I meant it as a joke, an easing, but it did not sound that way in the still air that hung between us._

I will make him look at me, I thought. _My legs swallowed up the five steps between us, and I crashed into his back._

\-----------------------------------

"Oh, don't run away," Arthur teases. He mocks and quips and laughs, giddy as it is returned to him tenfold. "I can take you apart with one blow."

"I can take you apart with less than that." Merlin's reply should sound like a joke -- after all, what can a mere peasant do against a trained knight? -- yet the teasing tilt to Merlin's lips says otherwise. 

He has never felt more alive than he does now. It's thrilling, _maddening_ , the way Merlin takes his words and twists it against him like a double-edged sword. Arthur can't get enough of their exchange of words, the feeling of being something other than the crown prince of Camelot, of being _human_.

Merlin is surprising; like a fresh breeze on a sweltering summer day. And yet there is also something about him that nags on the edge of Arthur's mind, something that feels timeless and old and ancient.

When Merlin pushes him to the ground that night - away from the a knife thrown by the rage of a grieving mother - Arthur is still half-asleep with the enchantment. It takes a while for him to realise that he is not falling onto grass, but cold castle stone.

\-----------------------------------

_“Have you no more memories?”_

I am made of memories.

_“Speak, then.”_

\-----------------------------------

Images flash through his mind over the years. Not frequent enough to make him question their nature, but just enough that it stays at the back of his mind, springing to life at random moments and forgotten the next.

It does when Merlin's lies on the floor after drinking about a poisoned goblet and all he can think is _not again, not again, not again._ It does when Merlin leaves for Ealdor and his whole body thrums with the need to run after him.It does when they are on a beach, looking into each other's eyes and Arthur feels like they are at the edge of a revelation, as if in another world, they would touch like waves crashing onto hungry shores.

But every time the warmth comes into his chest, he is also hit with fear that the edge of the road which connects them ends with something that will break them both, and for some reason he clings to the thought like a lifeline, pushing the erratic beats of his heart down until there is nothing but numbness.

(What he doesn't know is that down is deeper, and he doesn't realise until it's too late)

\-----------------------------------

_This feeling was different. I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. My tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. This and this and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender or too slow. This and this and this!  
_

\-----------------------------------

Arthur does not believe in destiny. As much as he complains how his life has been carved out for him, it will always be his choice to tread that path. It would be so easy to climb down the walls of the castle and run away, ride to the uninhabited edges of a foreign kingdom where life is as simple as figuring what to eat the next day. It his choice to stay in Camelot, and he does not regret it.

He believes, too, that there is choice in love.

This is what happens: he falls in love with Guinevere, and as always he pushes it down, wondering why his heart is always taken by those he cannot have. But unlike what he feels for Merlin, there is no dread that consumes him when he thinks of their possible future. There is only hope, and the confidence that he can change things, that he _will_ change things, that he will go against every law and disapproving face to fight for what they have because they deserve to be happy.

And they are, he thinks, as they sit on the ledge of the highest citadel of Camelot and Arthur teaches her every constellation in the sky. "That one is called _Libra,_ " he says. "It's a scale."

Guinevere hums, settling her head on his shoulders. "That one looks like a Scorpion," she points, tracing a path through the stars with her finger. That and that and that. And as the night grows older it becomes this and this and this, fingers caressing locks of hair, lips mapping every inch of the other's face, brushes of air against skin; never having to fear and worry that it will end in nothing.

"I have never stopped loving you," she says on a cold dawn even after the weight of betrayal hangs between them. He believes it, because it is true for him too.

He chooses to love Guinevere, and it's a choice he doesn't regret.

\-----------------------------------

_He was outlined against the painted stars; Polaris sat on his shoulder. His hand slipped over the quickened rise and fall of my belly’s breathing. He stroked me gently, as though smoothing finest cloth, and my hips lifted to his touch. I pulled him to me, and trembled and trembled. He was trembling, too.  
_

\-----------------------------------

When he falls in Camlann, Arthur counts the constellations, too tired and half-conscious to do anything else. He finds the scale again, and next to it the Scorpion. The sting of Mordred's sword cuts through him with every breath. As the world turns darker, he thinks he can hear it: this and this and this, stars painted onto the ceilings of a cave, whispers of names he cannot make out, the sweet taste of a foreign fruit on his lips, a voice asking - _are you sorry?_ and another one, quieter - _I am not._

Regret seeps into his very bones. He will die here. He is meant to die here. He can feel it in every trickle of blood through his skin, in every dusty breath he takes. If there is such a thing as destiny, then he knows it is this: King Arthur will meet his end on the plains of Camlann surrounded by the death he wrought. He is not surprised. This is only one of the ways in which kings may die.

And yet, with his last piece of consciousness he prays to the stars: _let me be happy._

When he dreams, the voices are clearer now. There are screams echoing through the silence where a name is repeated over and over again. _Patroclus,_ the void says. _Patroclus. Patroclus._ A few times the darkness gives away to a body, a wound gaping on its belly (the same place Mordred has wounded him, he realises) and brown eyes staring lifelessly like an accusation.

When he wakes, Merlin sits on the other side of the fire. Arthur calls out his name, but in his mind the voice continues to echo--

_\--Patroclus_.

\-----------------------------------

_“Name one hero who was happy.”_

_I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back._

_“You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward._

_“I can’t.”_

_“I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.”_

_“Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this._

_“I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.”_

_“Why me?”_

_“Because you’re the reason. Swear it.”_

_“I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes._

_“I swear it,” he echoed._

\-----------------------------------

This is what happens: Merlin confesses and Arthur tells him to leave, knowing that Merlin never will. Arthur spends the rest of the night thinking of spheres of light, dragons disappearing without trace, immortal armies defeated, swords cast in stone, and wonders why he ever failed to notice.

He wants to go back to Camelot and say his farewells to Guinevere, because even with the assurance that the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth is on his side, he knows there is no hope. Gaius knows this. Merlin, too, knows this. But just like Arthur never gave up on Merlin when he went missing, Arthur knows merlin will put in every inch of his life into Arthur's survival. 

It doesn't make sense why Merlin would do so to someone who has done nothing but evil to his kind, but as he sees the fire burning in Merlin's eyes when he says _that's not why I do it,_ Arthur thinks he might understand because--

\-- _because_ _you're the reason,_ an echo sounds, others ringing in his ears as Merlin lifts him back onto the horse. _Swear it_.

_Take me with you to your lessons.  
_

_I forgot to say I wished him for a companion._

_He is a mortal, and mortals die._

_You do not deserve him. I do not know why he ever loved you._

_I am not dead yet._

_You might as well be._

He can feel the splash of water around his ankles, a boy sitting on a river's edge, the sound of a knife as it slices through an innocent's throat, a cursed wind. He stares at Merlin's back and thinks -- this is what they are. They are Gedref, Pelion, the tunnels of Ealdor, sparse halls in the palace of Phthia, Sychillis, Camlann, Troy; always running after each other, always choosing the other in whatever capacity they are able to, working against an ending written into the worn scrolls of fate.

One dies, the other follows shortly after.

It will be like this, always, for as long as time itself.

He does not want it to be.

\-----------------------------------

_I shift, an infinitesimal movement, towards him. It is like the leap from a waterfall. I do not know, until then, what I am going to do. I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other._

\-----------------------------------

"Merlin, whatever happens--"

"--Shh." He is silenced. "Don't talk."

His attempt to rub off the sadness in Merlin's eyes with a joke fails, though he has never expected it to work anyway. The feeling is one he understands. There is no greater grief than being left on earth when another is gone. The fear of said grief is only second to that.

And suddenly the need to tell Merlin rushes over him like waves hitting the shores of a beach; he could shift now, an infinitesimal movement, just like Patroclus had leaned towards him a thousand years before, when destiny was something that seemed so distant and the dawn of the world could easily be found in the light of a boyish smile. Merlin would follow him as he always has, moving down to cover the outline of Polaris sitting on his shoulder and engulfing Arthur in the smell of herbs and grass and loyalty that spans life and death itself.

Whether he deserves that loyalty is a whole other matter.

"I don't want you to change," he says instead, choosing to believe in the fate that governs their meetings and farewells to bring them together in their next life; where confessions won't be too little, too late. "I want you to always be you," he continues, nearly following with _swear it,_ but he has no right to ask for a pledge. Not now. "I'm sorry for how I treated you."

And in that apology lies everything; two lifetimes worth of regret, of hearts broken from a pride that blinded him to everything he should have valued. As Achilles he had failed his people. As Arthur he had failed his other half.

But then he remembers Patroclus' shaky breath as he pleaded for the Greeks, and a druid girl standing proud in the court of Camelot, fighting for the right to be who she was.

Perhaps he had failed both in every life.

The pain that stabs through him hurts more than Mordred's sword and Paris' arrow combined.

\-----------------------------------

_He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body.  
_

\-----------------------------------

Merlin is the one to bring peace. The Best of the Myrmiddons. The Greatest Sorcerer to Ever Walk the Earth. One of them will always deserve his titles more than the other.

Maybe his early death is a punishment from the gods for his inadequacy; but he does not feel it to be. Not when he can feel the warmth of an embrace seeping through his very skin. He imagines Patroclus in the battlefields of Troy, hands gripping the dirt as Hector's spear makes its way into his stomach. He remembers his own loneliness as he traces the stars in Camlann, begging them to not make death and blood the last thing he sees even when he knew with infinite surety that it would be.

He realises, now, that the stars have answered him, as he reminds Merlin of the kingdom they built together and a life that exists for Merlin when Arthur is gone. Merlin grips his body as if he will never let go.

But Merlin will let go. He knows this. Merlin will be stronger than him; has always been stronger than him.

"Thank you," he says, and raises his hands one last time, memorising the way in which Merlin leans into his touch, the smoothness of his hair, the curve of his lips, the glitter of gold in his eyes; this and this and this, branding the memory into his very soul so he can remind himself in the next lifetime of the things he missed.

There is more to say, but he will not say it. There will be other times for speaking, days and nights, repeating infinitely in the circle of fate. He smiles, and his hands fall to his chest.

\-----------------------------------

_There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that. He let go of my hand._

\-----------------------------------

Merlin lets go of Arthur's hand, the cold waters of Avalon splashing gently onto his thighs like a caress.

He speaks, and his last wish for Arthur is peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This work may have a continuation detailing Arthur's time with Freya (Briseis) in Avalon and perhaps a couple of scenes after Arthur's return. I know Briseis and Gwen have more in common in terms of physical appearance, but I think Freya's storyline matches Briseis better.
> 
> I also have a feeling it's going to end up having Freya/Arthur/Merlin as endgame because I have a soft spot for both OT3s. It's just the matter of getting Achilles and Briseis together, which I think can be more viably done with this reincarnation of Arthur and Freya. They do have a lot of time together in Avalon after all ✨


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